Feet of Clay
by Moranth
Summary: Picking up where the alternate ending "Just A Man" left off, follow Russell Shepard's road to redemption after he's compromised the trust of his crew, his best friend, and most of all, himself. The second story in the Just A Man Series.
1. Mohinder

This place felt like home.

The trash spilt from overstuffed cans, runoff from the main street that pooled and stagnated behind the row of buildings in a part of the universe yet untouched by the technological boom. Even as the stench from the garbage stung his eyes, it put his heart at ease. He'd spent most of his childhood running through streets like this, hiding in alleys just like this until trouble had passed.

He was home. _He shouldn't be here._

They were in between missions and Shepard needed a break. He'd just helped Samara with her daughter or Tali with her father. He couldn't remember which; it was all too much for him to deal with. Shepard's request for a lower key mission had brought them to the Sol system, depositing salvage at a Cerberus drop point on the outskirts of the area formerly known as Chicago. It was a smart choice; who would think to come looking for Cerberus in a place so run down and devoid of the technology they were known to covet?

Choosing a team to disembark had proven to be a challenge. He tried to pick the two who would be more enamored with the filthy pit that was the human home world. Grunt, Jack, Tali; any of them would do. The drell was always on edge, Jacob was still unsure of how to act around him. He'd taken Shepard's fall from grace the hardest. It had gotten to the point that they couldn't be in the latrine at the same time without it feeling awkward. Shepard had started to miss those Q & A sessions they had in the mess hall.

Miranda, who he hadn't even considered having accompany him, too occupied with running the ship, sent Garrus in her stead, to serve as a reminder for Shepard to stay on his best behavior. That was low. Since they'd set foot on the planet's surface. Shepard couldn't take a piss without Garrus standing outside the door. He knew Garrus was just doing what he thought was right, but that didn't make it any less annoying.

Shepard had been clean for weeks now; partly because the bulk of their missions had taken them away from the more civilized regions of space, but mostly because of what happened the last time he'd touched sand. He went into a mission high and it had cost him; his team, his respect and Garrus might never be the same again.

Shepard stood at the mouth of the alley, rapidly calculating his chances of _not _getting propositioned if he entered. Every few feet it seemed like some member of the criminal element was poised, looking for a buyer, a victim, or both. He wasn't sure how he ended up here, but it was too late to turn back now.

He'd taken the squad to an open air market once their task was completed, to get a little taste of Earth culture or what was left of it. Tali had been fascinated by the stands offering various samplings of archaic human technology. She shouldered her way through the crowd like a veteran shopper with Garrus acting as bodyguard. A gimp turian could still handle a human jerk who got out of line.

Shepard couldn't take it anymore. He just needed a moment to himself without someone constantly watching him. So he ran. It was too much to hope that they wouldn't follow him, but as soon as he'd cleared the square, he could hear them thundering after him, Garrus' hindered steps echoing in his ears. They'd tried to raise him on the comm, but he could only listen to their angry shouts for so long. He'd come back when he was ready.

Shepard forced himself to stroll into the alley as casual as he could. The last thing he wanted to do was draw attention to himself. He hunched his shoulders, trying to hide his face. Most of the alley dwellers gave him a wide berth.

He was about through the alley, when he heard a commotion behind him. Against his better judgment, he turned around. He could see Tali and Garrus questioning a drunk who pointed in his direction. He broke into a run, deftly dodging gawkers as he fled down the narrow corridor.

"Russ!" Shepard looked up to see someone flagging him down from an open doorway. He didn't recognize the man, but with a pissed off turian and quarian on his tail, he'd take his chances. He corrected course for the opened door and was plunged into darkness as it slammed behind him. He and his savior held their breath as they listened for two sets of feet to rush past the door.

"Looks like I owe you one, stranger," Shepard said as he tried to discern his location.

"I'll just have to add it to your tab," Shepard could hear the smile in his voice. "I've saved your sorry ass more times than I can remember."

"Do I know you?" The voice sounded familiar, but he couldn't place him.

"You could say that. One might say that we know each other _intimately_."

"Can I get some lights here?"

The last thing Shepard wanted was to be trapped in the dark with some nut, or even worse a fan. He pictured the walls were covered in articles and images printed out from the Extranet in a show of fanaticism that put Conrad Verneer to shame.

"Sorry about that. I'm used to keeping them off." Shepard could hear him shuffling around, kicking debris about the floor. "It's been a while since I've had company."

Shepard's hand instinctively went for his gun. He didn't want to have to draw it on a civilian, but it was better safe than sorry.

The lights buzzed to life and Shepard blinked, clearing the spots from his eyes.

"That better?"

"Yeah, thanks." Shepard took in his surroundings. They stood in a very small spartan apartment sparsely furnished with a simple cot, a small refrigerator, a table and a few chairs. The walls bore watermarks from frequent flooding. He'd lived in a similar room growing up; they were inexpensive and the landlords didn't ask any questions if the rent was on time.

Shepard's gaze finally fell on the room's occupant. The man was almost a head taller than Shepard, but maybe half his weight soaking wet. His clothes hung off his frame, falling in big folds, the sleeves of his shirt flapping like wings as he spread his arms, as if he were waiting for something.

"Do I know you?" Shepard asked again, the man's features still not ringing any bells.

"_Do you know me?_ Of course you know me." The man advanced on him. "What, now that you some big hero you forgot where you come from?" He enfolded Shepard in as hearty a hug as he could manage, given his frailty.

Shepard patted him on the back gently, afraid he might hurt him if he did it too hard.

After a few moments, the hug ended and the stranger gripped Shepard's shoulders, holding him at arm's length, his eyes wet with tears.

"You really don't remember, huh?" He rubbed his nose on a billowy sleeve.

"Sorry," Shepard shrugged. For the first time in his life he wished he carried tissues with him.

"It's me! Mohinder!" He shook Shepard, as if trying to bring him to his senses.

"Mohinder? You mean Mo? From the Reds?"

The man nodded enthusiastically, pulling Shepard into another hug.

Shepard couldn't believe this was the same man. The Mohinder he'd remembered was a mountain of a man, well-muscled and broad shouldered. He'd been the enforcer in their gang, proving time and time again that those muscles weren't just for show.

Shepard hadn't been the only one who wanted a life beyond what they found in the gutters, and when he'd left the Reds, Mo had come along, too. He'd lost track of him after basic. He never expected to find him here, so far from their old stomping grounds and in such a sorry state. He looked like he'd been ravaged by illness: his skin was ashen and peeling, his lips dry and raw, his hands trembling and unsteady. He was a shadow of his former self.

"What happened to you?" The words were out of his mouth before his mind could censor them. "After I signed up for the N program, I didn't hear from you again. None of my messages got through, I couldn't find out anything… I thought you were dead."

"I thought _you_ were dead!" Mohinder laughed as he shuffled over to the small refrigerator in the corner.

"It was all over the news. There was a big uproar down here. People thought maybe the Council did it. They didn't seem like they were fans of making a human a Spectre." He lobbed a can of beer over his shoulder before spinning around to face his guest.

Shepard caught it easily, but didn't open it, waiting silently for an answer to his question.

"Turns out I wasn't Alliance material." Mohinder plopped down in one of the few chairs near the table and cracked open his beer.

"They said I had 'no respect for authority,'" he punctuated his statement with air quotes. Shepard took the seat opposite him, opening his own drink. "You know how those drill sergeants are; real hard asses. They were always on my case when I screwed up the littlest thing."

Mohinder took a long draught before setting his can down on the table. "I didn't think a little sand would hurt, you know? It doesn't seem like it did anything to you." He looked Shepard over appraisingly, envy etched into his features.

They'd both gotten into Sand at the same time. Some of the other recruits had been passing it around, singing its praises. It was a clean high, undetectable after only a few hours if used sparingly, and the minor biotic powers it gave you were fun to play around with for a while.

"Sand did this to you?" Shepard asked, hoping he didn't sound cynical. The drug wasn't supposed to have any long term effects. Sure, he'd heard of some people dropping weight from forgetting to eat, but nothing like this.

"No, no. Not just sand. That was just the beginning." He waved a hand batting away something Shepard couldn't see. "I've tried all kinds of things. You name it, I've done it. But in the end, you always come back on what you're used to." He grinned, flashing a set of teeth in various stages of decay.

"You still doping?"

"Nah, not anymore."

Technically it wasn't a lie. Even if it was against his will, clean was clean. He wanted to sigh in relief, grateful that he had the power of will to just be a casual user. Only indulging when he was celebrating, or depressed, or bored… That didn't matter now. For all intents in purposes at this moment, he was drug free.

"Once you start moving up in ranks, they keep a closer eye on you."

"But you're a Spectre, aren't you? Surely you've had the chance to sneak some every now and then. That sounds like a sweet gig. You get to do whatever you want!" When you were one of the top ranking officers on a ship in the middle of nowhere and few reports were made in person, who was there to keep an eye on you? He just hoped Mo wouldn't put two and two together.

"I haven't really thought about it much." Shepard said as he rubbed the back of his neck, the words sounding hollow to his own ears. "I'm always too busy saving one thing or another."

Mohinder eyed him skeptically. He'd never been the sharpest knife in the drawer, so hopefully that would be enough to placate him.

"Well good for you." His said tartly. "I guess it won't bother you if I go ahead then?"

"Go ahead." Shepard could feel his throat tightening. As Mo produced a small envelope, he wasn't sure if his resolve was strong enough to resist sand, only a foot away. He wiped at the sweat beading on his upper lip, trying to make it look like he was smoothing his moustache.

Mohinder poured the powder onto a small, sheet of plastic and separated it into four, even lines using the edge of a credit chit. Shepard's mouth went dry.

_He shouldn't be here. _

He should back out now while he still could, find Garrus and Tali and make a break for the Kodiak. But he didn't move. He was transfixed as one line after the other disappeared from the plate.

Mohinder leaned his head back and brushed some excess sand from his nostrils. His eyes glazed over and a shiver ran through Shepard as his body empathized, the familiar rush as the sand made its way into your veins. He ran his tongue over his parched lips.

"Man…" Mo sighed as he pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head, a gesture Shepard knew all too well. The first hit of sand always stung your nasal passages and while it didn't last long, it still hurt like a bitch.

Mohinder slid the tray across the table, within inches of Shepard's fingers.

"Take a hit for old time's sake." He grinned, showing he was missing a great deal of teeth.

Shepard was teetering on the brink. He wanted a taste. He wanted it _bad._

Even with his potential future sitting here, staring him in the face, with the knowledge that he could end up right down here at the bottom beside Mo, it didn't stay his hand.

He picked up the plastic tube, its weight almost comforting in his grasp. He pulled the plate towards him, a ghoulish grin plastered across his Monhinder's face, triumphant, almost mocking.

_One hit couldn't hurt._

Who would know? He just had to hang around here until it metabolized out of his system and he'd be in the clear and he could go on like nothing happened.

He scrubbed the tube with the hem of his shirt. He had no idea of what else had been up Mohinder's nose and he was well past caring if he offended him. He leaned forward, almost salivating in anticipation. Then he heard it; that familiar, uneven, loping gait hurrying passed the door accompanied by a string of curses.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the reflective surface of the tray as he stooped over it. He didn't like what he saw. His face was slick with sweat, his face twisted into a visage of desperation, of savage hunger and need. An expression he saw echoed across the table in Mo. Shepard tried to contain his horror. He felt sick.

"I think I'm good. " Shepard said as he willed himself to push the tray back across the table with shaky hands.

Mohinder shrugged, "More for me."

He quickly set to work on the last few lines. Shepard rose from the table, brushing at a layer of grime that coated his forearms where they made contact with the table. Strange that he didn't notice it before now.

"I'm gonna head out, Mo. Maybe I'll see you around" He doubted it. If his travels ever happened to bring him back this way, he wasn't sure there'd be anything left. Mohinder didn't respond as he bent over the tray.

"Take care of yourself," he called over his shoulder as he exited the small room but Mohinder simply stared ahead of him, large eyes opened wide, unseeing.

##

Shepard crouched in front of the door a hand pressed over his mouth to keep from gagging. His stomach clenched painfully, his body rebelling at being denied that which it craved. He didn't know how to feel. Regret? He'd dreamt about when he'd be able to take his next hit. It was right there in front of him, but he'd resisted. Should he be proud? No, he was feeling too sick for that.

"I've found him!" Tali called over the evening sounds of the alley. Shepard raised a bleary eyed gaze to see what he assumed were his very irate teammates, neither of their faces capable of showing much expression. It was all in the body language and if he was reading their squared shoulders, he was in it.

"Hey guys," he flashed a sickly smile. "How'd you enjoy the tour?"

"It was terrible, thanks to you!" Tali jabbed a pointed finger in his direction. She sounded exhausted, her voice on the verge of tears. "We looked everywhere for you. We didn't know if someone picked you up off the street or worse!"

"I'm a big boy, I can take care of myself." He said as he rose to his full height, towering over her.

"What could you do if you were outnumbered? What if they were armed" Tali said emphatically. She wasn't going to back down on this. Garrus just looked on, silently fuming.

"But none of that happened, and I'm fine."

Tali turned away, already turning on the water works. He hated that strange, snorkeling sound she made when she cried. He always wondered if she cried enough, would her helmet fill up, but today now wasn't the time to test that theory.

"Hey, I'm sorry." He attempted a hug, but it dissolved into a friendly pat on the back. "C'mon. I'm sure that flea market is still open. Let's see if that vendor's still there."

"Why would she want fleas, Shepard?" Garrus piped up, mandibles flaring in confusion.

"It's just a name."

##

"So where were you all this time?" Garrus asked when they were relatively alone.

They were positioned against a wall with a good view of the market. That was a sniper's instincts for you. Tali was nearby, flitting from stall to stall, filling a basket with various wares. Shepard knew it would take time for Tali to forgive him, but when he'd offered to pay for anything she found, and she was taking full advantage of it. It was a start.

"I met up with an old acquaintance of mine. We caught up."

Garrus grunted. "You look a little pale. You haven't been…" he paused, unable to find the right word for it in public, but Shepard caught his meaning.

"No. I came close, but I couldn't go through with it."

"Oh thank god—gods- someone." Garrus let out a sigh of relief. "I thought Miranda was going to kill me."

Shepard turned to look at him, his brows on the verge of disappearing into his hair. "And you believe me, just like that?"

"It would have been easier just to say that you didn't do it; didn't come near any sand, didn't even think about it but who would have been stupid enough to believe that?" He gave him the turian version of a grin. "Besides, your eyes dart around when you lie."

Shepard shrugged.  
When the man was right – he was right.


	2. So A Drell And A Spectre Walk Into A Bar

Dark Star was busy for the middle of the day; music played loudly while people danced and chatted as if they had nowhere to go, and the alcohol flowed freely. At least it felt like the middle of the day to Russell. On a space station with no day or night, he had only his omnitool to rely on and he had no intention of turning it on.

When they'd returned to the Normandy from his little excursion on Earth, Miranda had not been happy. She'd interrogated them all separately and while Russell and Tali stood their ground, Garrus folded like a house of cards. Russell didn't blame him.

Miranda was a hard woman to say no to once she put her mind to a task and Garrus, despite his protest to the contrary, was still a 'good' turian and not very adept at lying.

They were docked at the Citadel again for reasons unknown to him.

He hadn't bothered to ask and doubted anyone would answer if he had. He was a grunt now; just point him in the right direction and let him handle the rest- most of the time. There were times when his hand still shook as he looked down the sight of his rifle; his stomach lurched with the prospect of the success of a mission hinging on his actions.

This was better for him, easier. No responsibilities other than keeping his nose clean and he could slip away whenever he wanted, alone. Everyone was preoccupied with various jobs to help keep the ship running, or handling business of their own to escort him, but that hadn't kept Miranda from slipping a tracker in his omnitool during its routine maintenance.

Miranda hadn't raised a fuss once the truth had come out, but that in itself was alarming and once he'd spotted a few extra applications running in the background of his omnitool, he was able to put two-and-two together.

Rather than try to persuade a still upset Tali to remove it, he simply kept the device turned off. Growing up without tech decreased your dependence on it.

Anything he had to buy would be paid for with a credit chit. There was no one he needed to talk to and he was pretty sure no one would be looking for him. Miranda was clever, but she hadn't dealt with someone like him before, apparently.

He nursed his beer, in no hurry with no place to go. He was just a guy in a bar, watching a group of asari dance with each other.

"You'll frighten them away with your face looking like that."

"No one asked you," he said glumly as he tried to focus on his drink. He didn't want to get into a fight with some schmuck, and give Miranda another reason to ride his ass.

"Isn't it a bit early to be drinking?"

"What are you? My baby sitter?" He turned to see the person he least expected to see in this or any bar: the drell.

"I should hope not," Thane smirked as he took the stool beside him. "I didn't expect to find you here, Commander."

"Likewise. Did Miranda send you?"

He didn't want to be tailed by this guy. He could have been following him all this time and never would have known. He would probably never be able to shake him if he had made him his prey, not that he was planning to do anything untoward, but you never know.

"No. Despite the agreement I have with Cerberus, I do not answer to her directly." Thane replied as he hailed the bartender. "I'm just killing some time until I met with my son."

Russell raised a brow as Thane placed his order and the bartender set to work filling it. He snorted, nearly choking on his beer as a tall, tapered glass with a spiraled stem filled with a pale pink liquid was placed in front of the assassin. The only thing that could have made the drink more girly would have been if it was garnished with cherries and a little paper umbrella.

"I wouldn't have figured you were the drinking type, Krios," he said between snickers, barely able to contain himself.

"I'm not, usually," he said as he picked up the glass, peering through the light colored liquid. "It has been my experience that patrons of bars and nightclubs pay little attention to their surroundings and ask a few questions. As I'm not in an answering mood, I came here. It would be rude to occupy a seat without buying anything."

"Hm," Russell shrugged. That was a far more normal answer than anything he would have been expecting, but he'd leave it alone.

The two men drank in silence, both occasionally sparing glances for the asari who showed no signs of fatigue.

"So what brings you here, Commander?" Thane said, finally, most of his drink already demolished.

"I'm just here like you: killing some time."

"Is that so."

Russell didn't like the sound of that.

It was a phrase loaded with what Russell was sure was judgment, and thing he probably wouldn't say. Just like everyone else.

He wasn't a fan of Thane in general. Being around him was usually a downer; the few times he'd visited him in live support he had been so depressing, he was so quiet and reserved, he was like a vortex, sucking the life out of any group meeting. Don't even get him started on those eyes; they were so huge and black and fathomless and when they were turned on you, it was hard to tell if he was looking at you or through you. They reminded him of those little gray aliens from Earth-lore. To top it off, he couldn't read him and all of those traits made for an unsettling individual.

Russell signaled the tender for another round.

"I would have thought you were running away from something," Thane said, fingering the stem of the glass. "Forgive me if I'm overstepping my bounds." He didn't say anything more, too entranced by the light filtering through his glass, illuminating his drink with neon colors, like everything else on the Citadel. As suddenly as he brought it up, he dropped it and it was eating at Russell. Why did he have to be so cryptic?

"What makes you say that," Russell relented, his curiosity getting the better of him.

"Call it a hunch." Thane sipped at his drink, the level steadily decreasing.

"Maybe I am." Russell stared down into his own mug, nothing left in it but a few suds.

Since the incident, no one had spoken about it. For the sake of appearances, a policy of don't ask don't, tell had been enforced. Russell's feelings of shame and regret had stayed bottled up. Most of the crew still treated him well, but those that didn't, treated him like he had the plague.

He'd betrayed their trust, he knew that, but it didn't make him less angry about how they were handling it or less angry with himself. He'd worked his aggression out on a punching bag occasionally, but it did nothing to ease his guilt. That's what the beer was for.

"Let me ask you a something, Krios."

Thane turned on his stool to face him, his expression inscrutable as always, alluding to nothing. At least he made eye contact with him.

He nodded, sweeping his arm, palm up in front of him. "By all means."

"You said there are some things in your life that you regret, right? Despite the whole soul distinct from the body- yadda yadda."

Russell had never been a religious man. The whole idea of souls and Gods and higher powers went over his head. It was hard to believe in any of it when God never visited the neighborhoods he came from.

"Yes," Thane began carefully. "The distance my actions have put between my son and I is… unfortunate."

To say the least, but Russell left it there. Thane was doing him a courtesy, now wasn't the time to piss him off.

"How do you deal with it?"

Thane blinked inner and then outer lids slowly. Russell assumed this was as close to surprise as Thane could express.

He didn't know what he was doing. How did he go from wishing would leave, to spilling his guts to him, but now all he could do was hope he didn't regret it later.

"I can't put it behind me. I can't move on from here. No one trust me, Jacob avoids me. Every time I see Garrus, what happened replays in my mind. I imagine it would be worse for you. Can you forget anything?"

Thane quickly drained his glass and ordered another.

"No. Though I'm not actively thinking about a specific instance, it still lingers, with the potential to be triggered at any time. Though drell memory isn't perfect, it is accurate enough to sometimes prove an inconvenience."

He took another draught from his glass, leaving half the contents behind. "As for living with regret: You do it because you have to. There are few choices in the matter."

Shepard turned to look at him slack jawed. "That's it? No Zen advice? No secret to enlightenment?"

"I'm afraid not, though. I'm not sure what 'Zen' is," he replied flatly. "The best you can do is to try to make amends and move forward, learning from your mistakes. Or you can run away from it, like I did, but it will catch up with you eventually."

Shepard considered suggesting that Thane slow down on the drinks, but the idea of Thane loosening up seemed too good to pass up. What kind of drunk would he be? He couldn't possibly get more depressing.

"I've often envied the limited recall of other species. What I wouldn't give for some moments to dull or fade. Like the times I hurt my wife by leaving, or the scathing words of my son." He paused, running a tongue over his lips with a satisfied "Mmm."

"This drink seems to be helping, though." Russell watched as his companion drained another glass, looking no worse for it other than the twitching of his hands, and the sharing he was doing. "Now I have a question for you, Shepard," Thane said, his tone more relaxed, familiar. His body language was more exaggerated than usual, as he turned to face him.

"Shoot."

Thane hesitated for a moment, before a smile creased his features. He chuckled to himself, evidently amused by Russell's turn of phrase. He'd just said 'shoot' to a hitman. So the assassin had a sense of humor, although it could use some work.

Thane cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure.

"Do you feel bad about what happened? For the injuries Officer Vakarian sustained?"

"Of course I do," he replied, indignant.

"Of course," Thane repeated in a conciliating tone. "Have you told him this?"

Russell had, of course, but it had been while Garrus was in an out of a drug-induced coma. It hardly counted.

"Not in so many words, but he knows."

"Perhaps he does, but there are some things that need to be heard, rather than assumed. You have to make sure he really knows how you feel, and you have to hear his piece before you can try to move on from here."

This was getting more touchy feely than Russell had expected. Especially the way Thane was gripping his shoulder. He looked at the offending hand that gripped him tightly, but it didn't move.

"Trust me, Shepard. Once you take the first step, the rest will become apparent. We all have our crosses to bear but even small sacrifices can make the load lighter."

Shepard chewed that over while Thane ordered himself another round. What reason did he have for not saying it outright other than his male pride? Not talking about feelings was a display of macho posturing that spanned the species, but when it came down to it; he was a guy who didn't do that sort of emotional crap, not unless he was good and ripped.

He looked over at his bar buddy who was on his- well he lost track what number this was, but he seemed to be working on his own problems.

The doors to their right opened and in came Kolyat, looking as salty as the last time he'd seen him. He looked like he was coming from his community service; the neck of his shirt opened, his jacket slung over his shoulder, exposing bear arms.

The wound where Russell had clipped him had healed nicely, you could hardly tell anything had happened save for a slight discoloration.

As if recalling the same memory, Kolyat's face pinched into a scowl, brow ridges pinched together in unabashed distaste as his gaze fell on Russell. He turned bodily away from him, focusing his attention on his father, which suited Russell fine.

"My son," Thane said loudly as he clapped the lad hard on the shoulder. Kolyat gripped the counter, trying to regain his balance. He was shocked as his father openly laughed at his dismay as he rose, still heartily patting him on the back.

Thane embraced him and Russell winced, empathizing with the ten levels of embarrassment Kolyat might have been going through. "Are you ready to go?"

Kolyat simply nodded, stunned to silence.

Thane went for his omnitool, looking to settle up, but Russell laid a hand on his forearm with a shake of his head. Despite how they started the conversation, Thane ended up helping him out. He figured that was worth a few drinks, at least.

The drell nodded in understanding, flashing a rather cheeky grin before he set off, his son following behind warily.

Shepard wished he could be there to see how their night turned out.

* * *

"Are you still up?"

It was just after 20:00 hours. Of course Garrus was up, but he wasn't sure about his caller's sense of time.

He had just settled in after a long day of running back and forth from the ship to the Citadel in an effort to get the ship's artillery into working order. He'd seen the Reapers up close, and it would be many laborious hours until the firepower of the new Normandy met his standards.

He'd just sat down to his meal of take-out, one of the many luxuries of being docked at the Citadel. While he was never wanting for food, he rarely enjoyed the freeze-dried food that was standard in Gardner's pantry. He hoped that splurging on some comfort food would help to ease his conscience.

Shepard hadn't spoken to him since he'd been debriefed by Miranda. He was obviously ticked off. When he'd cooled down, he'd come around on his own, but Garrus hadn't expected him so soon, or so sloshed. Thankfully most of the crew was ashore, making the most of their layover and not here to see this. Shepard banged loudly on the door, wailing as if in pain. "Garrus!"

Garrus quickly unlocked the door and it flew open, unceremoniously dumping Shepard inside. Garrus popped his head out, making sure the coast was clear before dragging Shepard the rest of the way in.

"Garrus," Shepard mumbled as he pushed himself up. The Spectre waved his hands frantically, calling him over. He bent down, and Shepard caught him into a headlock, painfully crushing his fringe. "I luh you, man."

Garrus hauled him to his feet, fighting to detangle Shepard from his neck. "What did you get yourself into now?"

Shepard held on like some kind of primate, almost swinging from his crooked arm. "I may have had a drink or two," he said nonchalantly.

_Or ten_. Garrus could smell the liquor on his breath, pungent and nauseating. He was slurring his words, spraying spittle on his S's and he could barely stand.

"How about we get you some coffee?" The turian half dragged, half carried his visitor to his usual spot beside the console. His equilibrium was thrown off so much that he swayed precariously in his seat. He hoped Shepard wouldn't end up with his face in the grates while he was gone.

As Garrus turned to go to the kitchen, Shepard caught him by the hem of his tunic, his hands hovering dangerously close to his ass. He jumped, pulling his shirt out of Shepard's grasp.

What the Hell was going on? Had what happened to upset him so much that he had to turn to a bottle to drown it all out? Guilt gripped Garrus' gut.

"Look, if this is about earlier-"

"I'm sorry, Garrus," Shepard said sounding decidedly more sober. He'd stopped swaying, contrition washed over his features.

"For what? Coming in here shit-faced and falling all over yourself? You should be," Garrus gibed. There was nothing worse than a sad drunk.

"No, not for that. I've had to put up with your drunk ass more times that I can count." Shepard said, running a hand through his hair and down his neck. He tried rotating his shoulders a few times, trying to loosen them up.

"Remember that time at Chora's Den, when you just had to touch that dancer's head… things?" Shepard wiggled his fingers, mimicking an asari's tentacles.

Garrus remembered the incident acutely: He'd been particularly inebriated and had gotten a little 'handsy'. Shepard had to haul him out of there before he got his face rearranged by one of the krogan bouncers.

"So what are you apologizing for?" Garrus would entertain his drunken ranting a few minutes more, and then he would send him on his way. He was tired and hungry; traipsing around the Citadel, wasn't as easy as it had been, and he was exhausted. He just wanted to relax, eat his meal and go to sleep. It would probably need to be nuked after this, and it wouldn't taste the same.

"I'm sorry, Garrus," Shepard repeated, all the mirth gone from his voice. Garrus watched as Shepard's gaze drifted from his face to his legs.

"Don't start." Anxiety crept up on him. He didn't want to talk about this. They hadn't broached the subject since- well, at all that he could remember and that suited him just fine. It was something he didn't feel the need to revisit because it would stay with him.

Every time he bathed, every time he walked, he remembered what happened. His leg was stiff when he got up in the morning, when he walked long distances it hurt like a bitch. Most of his other wounds had healed but his carapace would never be perfect; there were still spots on his plates that were bare and discolored and would never return to their original luster. It could be worse though; he could be dead and he reminded himself of that fact constantly.

He coughed, clearing his throat before he spoke again, hoping he didn't sound as upset as he felt. "Don't worry about it, Shepard. I-I'm ok, so let's not do this." He forced a laugh to lighten the heavy atmosphere, the room suddenly feeling stuffy and cramped. "At least now I have a war story to impress the ladies."

"You don't have to do that," Shepard said quietly, talking mostly to his boots. "You don't have to try to cover for me. You don't have to try to make me feel better about this. I shouldn't. This is my fault. You should hate me for what I did to you."

It was his fault. There was no denying that. That whole operation had gone to shit at record speed and it was all Shepard's fault. If he just hadn't gotten high, he wouldn't have missed his shot and everything would have gone smoothly.

Everything would be OK. The hostages would all be alive and safe, the Normandy wouldn't be in chaos, and Garrus would be OK. Garrus could feel it. All he wanted to do was leave this alone, but Shepard had to push it. He just wouldn't listen. He never did. Garrus had tried to be a good friend until now, but he was at his limit.

"I tried to be discrete and let you handle your own problems. I thought if anyone could do it, it was you and boy did you prove me wrong." Garrus was livid; all his disappointment and shame came rising to the top and now everything was erupting with no way to stop it.

"Do you know what it was like for me to see my best friend spiraling out of control and not have a clue about what I could do to help?" He was pacing now, trying to burn off some of his anger before he did something he didn't really want to. It wasn't working.

"Do I turn you in and risk ruining your reputation, your career and possibly your life? Or do I let you handle it?"

Clearly he had chosen incorrectly and it was eating him up inside. It had been what fueled his suicide charge headlong into enemy fire. He wasn't so noble as to risk his life for others simply for the sake of being just. He'd tried to save those lives for one reason, for one person. He knew that now.

He'd probably do it again given the chance, though he couldn't explain why.

"If I'd known how bad off you were, I would have told someone, Shepard…" His anger was fizzling out and starting to turn inward. "I should've told Miranda, or Jacob; someone, anyone."

He'd dropped the ball. He'd been wearing blinders because he didn't want to see that Shepard, his friend, his mentor was mortal; that he had faults and that he needed help. He'd gotten those people killed. He was as much to blame as Shepard.

"You couldn't have known," Shepard said finally, raising his face to meet Garrus eye to eye. He looked relieved despite the fact that Garrus had just unloaded on him, his features bathed in a somber calm.

"I know I've wrong you Garrus. I put you in a bad position and I'm responsible for…" He trailed off, unable to bring himself to say it outright. "I abused your friendship. But all I can do is ask for your forgiveness."

Shepard rose and brushed himself off. It felt like hours since he came in and Garrus felt older for the experience. He felt a little better, getting these feelings off his chest. Maybe there was something to this whole, 'talking your problems out' thing that nearly every woman he dated had tried to teach him.

Shepard lingered in the doorway, unwilling to go until he knew where they stood.

"I know I can't take it back, but if there's some way I can make it up to you. Don't hesitate to let me know."

"I'll think about it."

Garrus had forgiven him weeks ago.

* * *

The next day things had seemed to return to normal. Russell had somehow made it back to his quarters without incident.

He was nursing the mother of all hangovers, but it was worth it. He knew that on his best day he wouldn't have been able to approach Garrus that openly and he surely wouldn't have been able to take what he told him. That was booze for you; lowering inhibitions and mending fences.

He opened the door to life support, treading as lightly as he could. He could already see that Thane was not in his usual spot this late in the day. The room was dark, save for the faint flickering of the status lights on the equipment in the room.

"Shepard," Russell heard the drell call as he rounded the corner, groping about in the darkness.

Thane was stretched out on his cot, an arm thrown across his eyes in an attempt to shut out any remaining light.

"How'd you know it was me?" Russell asked as he helped himself to Thane's empty chair, sitting in it backwards, his arms folded atop the back.

"You have a very distinct walk. You come down on your heels far too much." Thane said, sitting up slowly. He pressed a hand to his eyes, trying to stop his world from spinning. "What can I do for you?"

Russell handed Thane a small metal can, still chilled from the commissary. Thane turned it over in his hands, squinting at the label in the dim light.

"It's tomato juice." Russell offered, taking a little pleasure in Thane's confusion. "It's a hangover remedy. I don't know if it works on drell, but it's worth a shot. I figured you might need it after the way you were throwing them back last night."

"Hm." Thane said, cracking open the can and taking an experimental sip. "I appreciate the gesture, thank you."

As always, Russell couldn't get anything out of that statement. Did he really appreciate it? Was he just being polite?

"You seem to be in better spirits than when I found you last night, Shepard."

Russell fumbled with the other can he'd brought, glad that he couldn't see Thane's eyes boring into him. "Yeah. I figured it's about time I stopped running from things."

"That's good to hear." Russell could hear the approval in the older man's voice and couldn't help but feel embarrassed. "So, uh, how'd things go with Kolyat?" he asked, eager to shift the focus of the conversation.

"It went well, though I am light quite a few credits." Russell could hear him sipping his juice and he was surprised at the relief he felt.

"So you guys really hit the town, huh?"

"I also ended up with a worrying amount of comm channel addresses saved in my omnitool. I'm hesitant to even look at my extranet messages." He grunted, decidedly unhappy with that turn of events.

"Kolyat found my situation amusing. He can't wait for it to 'be his turn'," he sounded wistful. "He enjoyed himself, I think. I did as well, despite the interruptions."

"That's what counts." Russell nodded in agreement forgetting Thane probably couldn't see him. "I should go and let you rest."

He rose from his perch, setting the other can of juice on the table. "Help yourself if you need more."

"Thank you again for the drink, Shepard. It's helped immensely."

Russell felt uncomfortable getting thanked by him. All he did was bring him a drink, when Thane had helped him achieve clarity. "Don't mention. Really. And call me Russell."

He swore he heard Thane nictitate both sets of lids in the stillness of the room.

"Alright then, Russell."


	3. Come To Blows

Today was _not_ a good day.

Granted, most days weren't good for Russell, but today had been particularly brutal. He'd woken up far too early for his liking, followed by being dropped in the middle of nowhere.

There was nothing on Tarith. Well, almost nothing; so far it had some abandoned mining equipment, klixen and a thick chlorine fog so dense you could only see a few feet ahead of you at best.

To top it all off, he was itching again. The ills of withdrawal had returned with a vengeance; the irritability, the sour stomach, but the worst was the itching. Like ants crawling all over his skin, made near unbearable by the fact that he could do nothing to relieve himself, trapped inside his suit. The sooner they got off this rock, the better.

"Found another beacon," Grunt shouted as they rounded a corner in the stone labyrinth. He was having a ball; the unforeseeable danger, the unfavorable conditions; this was his kind of entertainment.

"Then punch it so we can get the Hell out of here."

Grunt jabbed the button enthusiastically, activating the beacon and sending another beam of light pointing toward their next destination. They fell into a loose formation as they journeyed further down the narrow corridor, Jacob brought up the rear.

"Keep it tight, Taylor," Russell barked, bringing his pistol up to bare. He didn't want any more klixen getting the drop on them. Jacob didn't reply. _Fuck him then._

He obviously didn't want to be on this mission, no doubt forced into it by Miranda and Russell didn't want him there either. He was tired of having babysitters. He couldn't sneeze without looking over his shoulder and finding someone there. He didn't want Jacob on this assignment, not today.

They had been avoiding each other for some time and that was fine with him. Clearing things up with him would involve more touchy-feely crap and Russell didn't have the patience or the alcohol. He realized that working like this wouldn't hold up in the long run, but he was in no mood to try to make amends.

As they approached what he hoped was the end of the line, he held up a fist, signaling the squad to halt. He heard voices: a krogan or two, a couple of vorcha. This would be a piece of cake.

This had been a Blood Pack mining facility and comm relay if the datapads they'd found scattered around were accurate. With luck, these were all that were left. Russell signaled the group to find cover so that he could get into position.

He knew this wouldn't be easy. He hadn't tried to snipe in weeks. He'd even abandoned his exercises; too busy brooding over his failure to be bothered, though he silently kicked himself for it now. He considered letting Jacob take the shot, but quickly abandoned the idea. This was his time.

He set the rifle up atop a crate, trying to angle it for a clear line of sight without giving away his location.

The weight of the gun in his hands felt good; he hadn't even realized how much he missed it. Maybe this would be like riding a bike: once you learned how to do, it was something you never forgot.

He sighted down the scope as best he could despite the impeding glass of his helmet, sincerely wishing his target, the lead krogan, would stop pacing. He was on a long distance communication and feverishly wearing a rut in the ground. He'd never seen a krogan so distracted while out in the open, but he wasn't complaining. Anything that would work in his favor was welcome.

Finally, Russell was able to track the target. His laser danced across his neck, one of the few places known to be a kill shot on the ridiculously reinforced being. He drew a slow, steady breath in and eased it out through clenched teeth.

_Just squeeze the trigger and the other will fall like dominos._

_In._

_Out._

Time seemed to slow down, every hair on his body standing on end. At that moment, he felt like the old Russell was back; in control, confident, capable.

_In._ He held his breath as he slowly started to squeeze the trigger. He quickly angled the gun up and away from the familiar black and white of Jacob's hard suit that had darted out in between him and his mark.

"What the shit? Fall back, Taylor!" He snarled into the mic, but Jacob continued on, running in headlong, gun blazing and drawing fire to himself, ignoring to his call.

"Shit," Russell muttered as he broke down his rifle and swapped it out for his heavy pistol. "Let's get in there and bail his ass out."

Grunt hooted unintelligible before charging in after Jacob and joining the chaos.

Today was _really_ not his day.

Russell hadn't spent any time in the medbay due to personal injury since… he couldn't remember when. He hated hospitals or anything like them: The sterile smell of antiseptic, of blood, the hurt and anguish that either got you there in the first place or left with you, always made him feel sick. He did his best to avoid them whenever possible and Chakwas fishing shrapnel from his thigh wasn't helping their case.

His team was usually pretty good about taking care of themselves. Everyone watched each other's backs when they were out there, until today. Add another one to his list of fuck-ups, though technically this one wasn't his fault. Maybe there was a wiring problem in Jacob's headset, he didn't know. He'd give him the benefit of the doubt until he had reason to think otherwise. He didn't even want to consider the other possibility. At least they'd gotten the job done this time.

Blood Pack communications were down in that sector, if only temporarily. It was one more thing he could check off his list of house cleaning for Cerberus.

"Can't you be a little gentler, doc?"

"I don't know why you were running around in that flimsy get up," she said, talking more to his thigh than to him, ignoring his complaint. "That shot sheared right through your armor. You're lucky you only ended up with this much damage, and no serious chlorine burns." She huffed before yanking a large piece of metal from his leg.

"Geez!" Russell winced through gritted teeth, forcing himself to keep his leg down and not snatch it away from her ministrations.

"Were you always such a baby?" She began stitching his wounds closed, with a speed that only came with years of practice. "I strongly suggest you consider upgrading your armor or at the very least replacing this one. I don't think you'd be able to use it again."

Though the area had been numbed, he could still feel the unaffected skin tug with each pass of the needle, deepening the stigma he'd assigned to doctors and their ilk.

As he stared up at the ceiling, he realized that he'd be making a trip to the armory for one reason or another.

Russell's intention had been to do this diplomatically at first. A little small talk and then ease into the question of what went wrong as tactfully as he could, but he could already tell that wasn't going to happen. Pain, white and hot seared through his leg, pissing him off more with each stride. He was sporting a limp that rivaled Garrus', made worse when he told him so when they'd passed in the elevator.

He hobbled out into the C.I.C., his mood worsening with every step. All pretense of approaching this situation in a civilized manner long forgotten by the time he made it to the armory doors.

"Jacob," Russell called to him, but like earlier, he didn't acknowledge him, not even looking up from his console.

He was always there whenever Russell visited. He had no idea what he was doing; counting inventory, ordering new equipment or just trying to look busy?

"Taylor!" He bellowed, his already thin patience worn to the point of snapping. He strode over to him, each step shooting fresh pain up his thigh.

"What the hell was that out there?"

"Just trying to finish up the mission in a timely fashion, _sir_." The mock formality in his voice said as much as the condescending "sir".

"You nearly got my leg shot off in the process!" Russell gestured to his bandaged leg, "When we're in the field, you follow my orders," he boomed, pointing a condemning finger at Jacob's back. He stiffened, shoulders visibly bunching into knots of stress.

"I'll follow _your_ orders when I feel they're worth following," he said coolly as he turned to face Russell, a dangerous glint in his eye.

The fallen commander's temper flared at his flippant tone. This was not the attitude of a man who was regretting his actions. He took a step closer, widening his stance and rolling his shoulders. He'd used this tactic back before his days in the Alliance; make yourself look menacing and intimidate some punk into backing down and if that didn't work, be ready for a fight. He hadn't resorted to this in years, but what did he care about rules appearances?

"I don't care what Miranda or any other Cerberus 'puppet' told you." Russell said, long past caring who he might be offending. "When you're out there with me you follow my orders. There's no time for questions or excuses. That's how people wind up dead."

Jacob called his bluff, stepping forward until their noses were almost touching. Russell could smell the gum on his breath. "With all due respect, Shepard: Fuck off."

"Don't test me, Taylor. Today is not the day for this."

"_'Don't test you?_'" Jacob laughed in disbelief. "Every day I'm stuck on this rig with you is a fucking test. I'd be reassigned if I could."

Russell slammed his forearm against the operative's throat and shoved him hard, pinning him to the wall behind him. If there was one thing he couldn't abide, it was outright disrespect. No matter what he'd done, he'd be damned if he would let this fly. "You watch how you talk to me on my ship-"

A gloved fist connecting with his jaw cut him short. The blow sent him reeling, his injured leg buckled beneath him and he landed flat on his ass.

"This isn't _your_ ship. You don't have anything thing here; no ship, no crew, no respect. You threw it all away for some bullshit." Jacob flexed his hand, inspecting his knuckles. "I hope you're proud of yourself."

Russell spat, leaving a bloody spot on the floor. "Don't act like you know shit about me."

"Then don't act like you're someone worth knowing. You're a joke."

Russell charged him again, throwing his weight at Jacob's legs and sending him crashing to the floor. The day had worn them down to the frayed edges; both men feeling exposed and raw. They pummeled each other, conveying the feelings they didn't dare speak with their fist.

Bloody and battered, they both ran out of steam. They sat panting, staring each other down across the small space. The scuffle had done nothing to ease either of their offended feelings, if anything, it had made them worse. Russell still wanted to kick his ass, badly, but he was at a disadvantage: his wound had reopened, fresh blood soaked through the dressings.

He hoisted himself up, leaning heavily on the nearby table, never taking his gaze from Jacob's.

"We're not done here."

Limping, he made his way out of the armory intent on making use of the medkit he kept stashed in his quarters for such an occasion. Seeing Chakwas once a day was enough for him. Miranda would be calling on him after this and he wanted to look presentable… or at least not like he'd gotten his ass handed to him.


	4. Therapy

Miranda showed up sooner than expected.

Russell had just finished showering and was toweling himself dry when the cabin doors flew open without so much as a knock. EDI hadn't warned him of her approach either; that hardly seemed fair.

He continued drying off, not bothering to cover himself, pretending to not have noticed her presence. He was bent over at the waist, his ass facing the door. He was sure she'd seen worse when he was being reconstructed.

After a few moments, Miranda finally cleared her throat. "Shepard, might I have a word?"

"Sure, but can you give me a second to preserve my modesty?"

Miranda rolled her eyes, but complied, turning her back on him while he searched for something to cover himself with.

He hunted through the piles of clothes scattered around the room until he found a pair of gym shorts and pulled them on. He settled on the bed, his med kit beside him as he set to work on bandaging his thigh.

He'd chanced a look at it in the shower; it was pretty ugly, but at least the stitches were intact, most of them anyway. He washed it despite instructions otherwise, the sight of it oozing was too gross for him to leave it alone.

Miranda turned around as the box clicked open, taking that as her cue. Her expression was not one of amusement, but it wasn't exactly angry, either.

"I don't appreciate you maiming members of the crew," she started, slowly making her way across the room.

She smoothed her fingers over the couch appraisingly before inviting herself to sit, crossing her legs at the knee. Russell stared, distracted by how impossibly long they looked.

"It isn't good for morale." Miranda said evenly as she uncrossed her legs, aware of his apparent interest.

"You know what else isn't good for morale?" He snapped, his wits returning to him. "Having your leg shot full of holes."

He could rattle off a whole list of other things that weren't good for _his_ morale; regular interrogations were at the top.

He carefully slathered medigel over the scrapes lining his cheek and his jaw. "The way he was mouthing off to me, he was practically begging me to hit him."

"Be that as it may, you are still, technically, the superior officer and I expect you to conduct yourself accordingly," she chided, as if she was addressing a petulant child.

It was Russell's turn to roll his eyes now. He sure as hell didn't feel like he was and hadn't for weeks. He definitely wasn't getting the respect afforded someone of his position, former position, whichever. "Maybe you should tell _him_ that."

Miranda stood now, unnecessarily smoothing her hands over her jumpsuit. The thing was skin tight. How could there be any wrinkles?

"I will be talking to Jacob. There will be disciplinary measures taken for his actions I assure you." She produced a small scanner from the medbay, "But first."

This was the real reason for her visit. As far as he'd known, red sand wasn't detectable after a few hours. So either Cerberus knew something he didn't or he'd be dangerously misinformed, not that it mattered now.

This had become their routine: whenever Russell disembarked, Miranda was there, ready to take a sample of his blood and hair. She'd collected so many specimens from him, it was a miracle he hadn't developed any bald spots. Despite her front of professionalism, he swore that she enjoyed it.

"You know," Miranda said, as she pressed the device to the bare skin of his forearm. "Jacob is still having trouble dealing with your indiscretion."

_Indiscretion._

Russell hadn't realized how much he appreciated her tact until he'd started having his flaws thrown in his face almost every damned day. He grimaced as the needle punctured his skin.

"He should get over it. He's not a kid."

"Even adults have their ideals. He thought of you as something of an icon." She eyed the machine as she spoke, deciphering something from its flashing lights. "Something to strive towards."

"I didn't ask to be his hero or anyone else's. I was just doing my job."

"That's the appeal," she smiled, more to herself than to him. He didn't see how it was appropriate. "For someone who came from beginnings as humble as yours, to become the first human Spectre and the savior of the Citadel is a big deal." She packed the scanner away.

"I would have thought you would be used to some level of _idol worship_ by now."

"It's not something you can just _get used to_." He never had.

He rubbed a hand over his cropped hair as he let out a long sigh. It was too much for someone with his "humble beginnings" to bear.

After he was acknowledged by the Council, he couldn't go anywhere without being recognized. Reporters were always waiting to ambush him. Microphones were always being stuck in his face. It had been a nightmare.

With the announcement of his death, he'd gotten some reprieve, but he wondered how long it would take for someone to recognize him and start the circus all over again.

"I never asked for any of this. I didn't want to be a Spectre in the first place. I would have been fine serving under Anderson even now."

Miranda secured the samples in the satchel at her hip as she gave him the once over. Her gaze traced the faint scars lining his inner arms and legs, but didn't say anything.

They'd been more prominent before he'd been reconstructed, but he was sure she already knew that. She'd never asked him about them. Tactful; that was the word for it. "I think it would be good to have Jacob meet with Yeoman Chambers for a few counseling sessions."

She got no argument there. He was clearly going through some shit of his own. Russell doubted it was all because of him. She had to be certain her mole was going to be fit to do his duty after all.

"I'll tell her to pencil you in for a few as well." She didn't skip a beat, moving on without giving him a chance to object.

"If we're going to survive this mission, we're going to need to be a functioning team. We can't accomplish that if we're at each other's throats."

He flopped on the bed, rolling onto his side away from her. He was too tired to argue.

_Painkillers_.

That was Russell's waking thought as he rolled out of bed. His thigh throbbed angrily, the skin around it was purpled and swollen and he was sure that under the gauze it was probably worse than before. The pain kept him up all night, too proud to admit he needed something to help alleviate the pain. That he needed help at all.

That's what he got for fucking around. It wasn't bad enough that he'd been shot in it; he had to make it worse by fighting with Taylor like some damn kid.

He put his feet on the floor, putting most of his weight on his right leg. God, this hurt. He couldn't recall feeling anything this intense before.

Today was the first, and hopefully last, session with Chambers and he wasn't looking forward to it.

Kelly was a "counselor" and in Russell's mind that was just a nonthreatening way to say "psychologist;" a shrink. Russell didn't need to see a shrink; those were for crazy or disturbed people, like Jack or Zaeed. Not him.

Given the choice, he would have removed her from the ship ages ago. All she really did was let him know when he'd received a message, which he could find out himself simply by _looking._ Unfortunately, the decision wasn't his to make. Neither was the decision of blowing the whole thing off and staying in bed.

Miranda had commed him before lights out to inform him that she's already scheduled one and where. She also warned that she'd call fifteen minutes before to make sure he was well on his way, and would keep calling until he was there. He'd have no peace.

He found the painkillers after rummaging thought the night table drawers and stared at the bottle ruefully. He'd insisted he didn't need them, but he accepted them when they were offered all the same.

He couldn't swallow pills and was too proud to admit it to Dr. Chakwas, but given the alternative of an injection, this seemed like the best option. At least they were tablets.

He shook out a few pills and crunched them between his teeth, his face contorting as the acrid powder stuck to his tongue.

_Awful._

As he hobbled into the bathroom, he could hear his private terminal beeping. He had an incoming transmission.

He'd better get the lead out.

Acting on the side of discretion, they'd be using the starboard observation deck as an impromptu office. Anywhere else on the ship was too crowded save for Shepard's quarters and there was no way in Hell he'd let Chambers up there. He doubted he'd be able to get her to leave.

The doors opened silently on their runners, admitting him to the vacated deck. Kelly was waiting for him; her bangs were pinned back in a severe style, revealing a prominent forehead.

An old fashioned pad and pen were beside her on the couch as she sat staring into the abyss. She chewed her nails anxiously. She saw him almost every day; why was she nervous?

The doors clicked shut behind him and she nearly leapt out of her skin.

"Good morning, Commander," she flashed a smile, brimming with her usual good cheer.

"Chambers," he nodded, hooking his thumbs in his belt loops. Russell didn't particularly care for Kelly. Aside from being what he considered one of Cerberus' biggest fans, she seemed like she had something to hide.

No one truly liked _everyone_ and if said they did, they were lying. She seemed like she either had something to hide, or she was extremely naïve and he didn't have a use for her either way.

She stood to face him, that same smile fixed in place, reminding him of a mannequin, "Make yourself comfortable and we'll get started."

He complied, easing himself onto the couch. Kelly sat opposite him, on the ledge beneath the huge picture window.

"How are you feeling?"

"Like shit," he yawned, trying to fend off the fatigue that often accompanied pain killers, wishing he was still in bed.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Kelly frowned, looking genuinely concerned. "I'm sure you'll be back to normal soon enough."

Russell's hand went to the back of his neck in response.

_Whatever._

Kelly set a small audio recorder on the ledge beside her, readying her tools of the trade.

"What's that for?" He nodded towards the device.

"Cerberus regulations say that inter-personnel incidents have to be recorded and the parties interviewed by a counselor."

There was that word again.

She clicked her pen as she twisted and turned her notepad in her lap. "So," she clicked it again, this time setting it to paper. "Do you know why you're here today, commander?"

He stared at the recorder, apprehensively. He wasn't ok with this. How did he know they wouldn't use anything they gleaned from this conversation against him sometime down the line? How? He wasn't sure that they ever would, but he didn't like leaving loose ends.

Kelly reached out and grasped his knee, giving what she thought was a reassure squeeze.

"It's just protocol. It's not like we're going to stone you or anything."

In the end, he was reminded of his powerlessness; he didn't have a choice. He sighed, defeated. "Ok, Chambers, let's give this a shot, but if it gets out of hand, I'm gone."

"Fair enough," she agreed, finally removing her hand from his person.

"I'd appreciate it if you'd answer every question as truthfully as possible." She clicked her pen again.

"Why are you here?"

"Because Miranda made me come."

"Commander…"

"You told me to be honest."

Kelly pressed her palm to her forehead, already visibly flustered. Now that wasn't very professional.

"Let's try this again. What happened yesterday on Tarnith?"

"Towards the end of our recon, we came across some Blood Pack members, so I figured we'd clean house. When I attempted to snipe the leader, Operative Taylor broke formation and got into the line of fire."

Kelly jotted down a few notes as he spoke. Her handwriting looked like chicken scratch from where sat.

"He alerted the enemy to our presence and Grunt and I were forced to break cover to contain the situation and we got hosed down."

"Please, go on."

"My shields dropped quickly and my armor was good enough to take a direct hit. I was lucky it was just my leg, I suppose." He fidgeted in his seat as a quiet settled over them. Kelly's pen worked furiously across the paper, her writing not any more legible than when she started.

"What happened after you returned to the Normandy?" Russell knew where she was going with this.

"I went to see Chakwas and she patched me up," he spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully. "I went to see Operative Taylor…" he trailed off, not really wanting to repeat what she already knew.

Saying it aloud would be the same as admitting his fault in this. He knew he was wrong but he didn't want to tell her that.

"Why did you go see Taylor?" Russell crossed his arms over his chest, he set his jaw. No matter what he said, he knew he'd sound like the bad guy, the one to blame. He was just doing what he had to.

"I have to ask," her smile was gone, replaced with unease. It was disarming. His face relaxed, but his arms remained crossed.

"I wanted to find out why things got out of hand. I thought it might have been a hardware malfunction. Anything… but I'll let him tell you the rest."

"I see."

"Is that all? Are we done here?" He was on the edge of his seat, ready to go. Kelly reached out for him again, holding him in place.

"I have a few more questions for you, off the record." She set the notepad aside and turned off the recorder.

"Our file on you seems like it's missing some information before you joined the Alliance and I was wondering if you spare a few minutes to help me fill in the blanks."

She picked up a datapad that had lain discarded, her fingers deftly skimming its surface.

"Ok. It says that you were orphaned on Earth," she began, not waiting for him to assent. "That must have been hard. How did that happen?"

"Car accident," he replied flatly. His leg was starting to hurt again and he just wanted to be done.

"What happened after that?"

"Spent some time in the hospital." His head was throbbing, his mouth gone dry, his eyes burned.

"I'm not doing this."

He could hear his heart thrumming in his ears. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck as anxiety gripped his chest. He hadn't thought about that time in his life for years and he didn't want to start now.

Kelly was talking to him, but he couldn't hear it over the surge of blood pounding in his ears. She looked at him, her eyes pleading.

Whatever she wanted from him, he was in no position to give.

He hobbled towards the door, with her hot on his heels.

"So help me, Kelly if you don't leave me alone," every word tinged with malice. He wasn't sure what he'd do, but he knew it wouldn't be good.

He'd never spoken to anyone about what had led him to be in the orphanage, not even his brothers in the Reds. Why the fuck would he tell her? "I did what you asked; that's it. We're through."

The doors opened he reached them, Jacob stood blocking the doorway. His bottom lip was puffy, a lump was growing over his left eye. He glared at the commander, but said nothing as he stepped out of the way to let him pass.

Russell didn't give him a second glance as he lumbered past, and headed into the elevator.

He couldn't take it.


	5. Brick

"It's a shame we have to meet under these circumstances," the Illusive Man said, looking as unruffled as usual. Russell could do nothing but bite back the jealousy churning in his gut.

The man looked relaxed, stretched out in his fancy chair, with his expensive brandy -or was it bourbon that rich guys drank? -and his cigarettes while the rest of them were left to stagnate on this ship, darting around the universe at his beckon call.

It was easy for him to call the shots in all his finery, looking on Russell with disdain from the sidelines. It burned him up that he had to defer to this man who was no better than the armchair generals that Russell had come to despise during his tenure in the Alliance.

In the end, that's what it came down to: not that the Illusive Man was the embodiment of Cerberus itself and Russell was an Alliance marine, but the fact that he was some fancy aristocrat who didn't know squat about what it was like to put your life on the line.

"Operative Lawson has informed me that there have been… some problems with the Normandy personnel."

The Illusive Man waited patiently, ocular implants looking more distant that usual.

Russell had nothing to say.

He was sure he'd heard it all from Miranda already; the news of his addiction, what had happened to Garrus and now what had happened with Jacob and Kelly. The only surprise was that he'd waited this long to speak to him about it.

Russell, convinced the Illusive Man had already formed his own opinions of him, didn't see a point in trying to dissuade him into thinking otherwise.

"If you don't want to say your piece, that's fine. I'll keep this short." He dusted the ash from his cigarette, his brows knitting together.

"Let me start by saying I could care less about what you do in your free time. Dust your brains out; hell, fuck a krogan. I couldn't give a shit."

His voice carried its usual cadence, which made the words it conveyed more alarming. The Illusive Man; above reproach, too high and mighty to stoop to the average man's level and tell anyone how he _really felt_ had chosen now to share, and that did not bode well.

"It's when you let your personal life encroach on what I'm trying to accomplish here, that we begin to have a problem."

Russell's hands clenched at his sides, his temper quickly approaching its limit. No one had talked to him like that in years. If not for the millions of miles of space that separated them, Russell would have done something he'd regret.

"In order for this mission to go smoothly, it's absolutely crucial that the members of the crew get along amicably.

"It's no secret that 'works well with others' isn't exactly a highlight on your resume or that you aren't a fan of Cerberus." He paused, as if expecting an objection.

When none came, he continued. "But I don't want to see a repeat of Torfan because of some personal grudge."

Russell bristled. He hadn't taken any of those deaths lightly. He'd known most of his unit by name and those among the fallen that he didn't know, he memorized.

He did what he had to with what options were left to him. If someone else had been in charge, they might have reduced the human casualties to a number that was more acceptable, but there had been no one else.

At the end of the day there had been a lot of dead batarians lying at his feet and to him, it was good enough. He'd approached the situation the best way he knew how, the only way he knew how. They would have all died if he had done nothing, and still it wasn't satisfactory.

That it was even implied that he could be so petty, so harsh, cut him deeper than he'd ever admit, but he couldn't let it show. He'd just pack it away with the other shit he'd have to deal with in his own time, but that did nothing to ease the pain building in his chest now.

"If I did not absolutely need you for this, we would have parted ways some time ago. I've no more of an emotional investment in you than I do the ship you're riding in." He pinched the cigarette between his lips, holding it there, rather than enjoying it. "But, I do expect a certain level of professionalism, even from someone like you."

_Someone like you._

"Are we done here?" Russell said, finally breaking his silence, his posture rigid as he tried to keep a tight lid on the emotions that threatened to spill out of him. The Illusive Man simply glared, lifeless eyes boring into him as the cigarette went to ash.

"We're done." He took a long drag before he ground out the remains on the armrest mounted ashtray.

Russell turned to dismount the holo-platform. He'd need some serious stress relief after this, and with sand off the table, he'd have to resort to some good old fashioned violence. He'd comm Garrus as soon as he was out the door.

"Oh, one more thing, Shepard," the Illusive Man called to his back.

Russ was tempted to pretend he didn't hear him, but decided against it, turning to face the man again.

"Miranda insists that I _make _you continue your sessions with Kelly. While I don't care much either way, she assures me that it will pay off in the end and help establish 'unity among the squad.'" He grinned, an unfamiliar and sickly looking expression, given the inhuman eyes.

"Let's humor her for the time being, shall we?"

Down in the cargo hold, amidst crate upon crate of provisions, a small corner had been cleared and deemed the unofficial rec area. Complete with free weights, a bench, mats for sparring and a punching bag, it had become the favorite refuge of the more energetic members of the crew.

The level was all but deserted save for the perspiring commander and his right hand turian. Garrus fought to steady the bag as Russell showed off, pivoting on his uninjured leg and hitting it hard with backhand blows. Russell spun back around, putting too much weight on his right leg as he landed. He threw a hand out to steady himself and hold Garrus at bay. The last thing he wanted was to be treated like an invalid on top of everything else.

"I'm alright." The wound hadn't pained him in so long, that he'd almost forgotten about it. He eased himself to the floor, silently cursing his own stupidity.

"Well, I need a break," Garrus said as he released the bag. He settled against some crates opposite Russell, his bad leg stretched out in front of him. Sitting there, he looked fine, but underneath the armor, Russell was sure his friend bore scars and bruises far worse than his own.

"It's not that bad." Garrus answered his unspoken question.

"It just gets stiff if I stand too long." His mandibles twitched in a show of discomfort. Russell must have been staring. "It's feeling pretty good, actually; like it's getting better."

Russell forced a lopsided grin. Sometimes you had to laugh to keep from crying. He liked being around Garrus but sometimes the guilt was too much. Wailing on the bag had kept it at bay, but now that he was sitting idle, it all came rushing back.

Whether the words were true or not, they did nothing to ease the pain in his chest.

"Let me ask you a question."

"Shoot."

Russell tapped the bag and watched it drift away from him. "Would you say I'm… disturbed?"

"That depends on your definition of 'disturbed.'"

"You know what I mean, smart ass."

Garrus chuckled, the sound low and deep in his chest. "I'm serious, Shep- Russell. It seems like humans have a more stringent set of guidelines when it comes to mental health. As far as turians go: so long as you aren't running around lopping people's limbs off-"

"What about picking fights and giving crewmen black eyes?"

Garrus was silent a moment, his head cocked to the side quizzically. His eyes widened as the realization dawned on him. "Oh… Oh! So you did that, too…" he trailed off, mandibles drawn tight in an expression Russell had come to associate with contrition.

"After seeing what happened to you, I just assumed he got those lumps on the mission."

"Well you know what they say when you assume." Russell leaned against a stack of crates, finally reaching his limit with his leg. It was almost time for painkillers again, but he wasn't ready to drift off to a drug aided sleep.

"No, what do they say?"

"You make an ass out of you and me."

"That just sounds stupid. If I'm the one assuming something, how am I making an ass out of you?"

Russell shrugged. "I didn't make the saying, but you get the point."

Garrus crossed his arms over the wide expanse of chest, his gaze distant.

"I think that might have just been a case of combat stress. No one goes through the shit we have and comes out the other side unscathed."

He walked over the punching bag, trying to make sense of it. He balled up his talons into a three fingered fist and jabbed at it. He surprised them both when he was able to sidestep it when the momentum brought it back his way.

"I can't speak for you before we met, but you seem like you're doing pretty good, all things considered."

"I talked to the Illusive Man today." Russell wasn't sure why he was talking so much, but he didn't think that he could stop.

It wasn't every day he had something he needed to get something off his chest and he wasn't ready to talk to Kelly. It would mean apologies he wasn't ready to give. Not yet.

"He mentioned Torfan. No one's talked about that around me for years." Russell took a swig from his water bottle, uncertain of how he should continue. He'd already said too much.

"From what I've heard," Garrus said, trying to fill the silence, "It was pretty rough. Maybe they thought it was a touchy subject?"

"Why? I did what I had to, what anyone would have, didn't I? Didn't I do the right thing?" His voice reaching the higher octaves.

The floodgates had burst and everything he'd tried to push down and deny came rushing out and he had no way to stop it.

"I didn't have any other choice. I never have."

His hands shook as he combed his fingers through his clipped hair.

"The one choice I made would end up fucking my life up." He laughed bitterly, the sound echoing in the mostly empty space.

"He suggested that I would get the squad killed over something petty and stupid. Torfan and what happened with Jacob were two different things!" He buried his face in his hands, as he was wracked with quiet sobs.

"Is that what you see me as? Just some fucking degenerate who'd just as soon hit you as I'd shake your hand? There's more to it than that..."

Garrus stood agape, unsure of what to do. What could he say? What could he do? He walked over this his friend, and placed a hand on his shoulder, hoping it would steady him, as his body shook.

"Tell me about it, then."


	6. Breach

_Tell him about it._

Russell sat gaping at the turian as if he'd just sprouted a second head.

Could it be that simple? If he opened his mouth, he knew the words would come. If there was anyone he should be able to share his burden with, it would be the one who had been with him to Hell and back.

_Tell him about it._

Did he have the right? To heap his problems on top of what was already a full plate? Should he relent; give voice to the anxieties and regrets that kept him up night after night?

_Tell him._

"I don't know if that's such a good idea." Russell said, drowning out the voice crying out from somewhere deep inside him, urging him to grasp the line that was being tossed to him.

"Why not? You helped me with my- issues-with Sidonis; it's only fair that I get to return the favor."

Russell worried a cut on the inside of his cheek; still fretting, weighing the pros and cons. If he didn't get this off of his chest now, when would he? Would he ever feel comfortable enough to do this again?

"Fine. I'll tell you."

* * *

_I grew up just outside of Philadelphia, another major city on Earth. Not as big or famous as New York or Paris, but it was far from the smallest. The area I lived in wasn't great. Most of it was virtually untouched by technology. After humanity found the relay on Mars, they set their sights on space travel. Improving condition for those left at home wasn't high on the agenda, but then again, it never was. _

_My parents… My parents were working folks My mom was a primary school teacher, my dad worked for Conatix Industries; nothing glamorous. He still came home with dirt caked under his nails, smelling like sweat and oil. I never really asked what he did. I was too young to care, and they were gone before I got the chance._

_When I was about 10, we were in a car accident; some drunk asshole hit us head on. I got pretty banged up. … They didn't make it. The only consolation in all of this is that the idiot got taken out too. Don't look at me like that, Garrus. You know I'm right._

_I was stuck in that hospital for weeks, maybe months while I recuperated and the administration tried to figure out what to do with me. It wasn't the greatest place to stay, but it did the job. Thankfully medicine was one field they didn't skimp on when they were advancing society. _

_When I was finally released, I was sent straight to Guiding Arms; an orphanage… Do turian have those? Homes for 'displaced' children. I never really liked that word: 'displaced'. It always seemed like they were trying to downplay our situations; make it seem like it wasn't as bad as it was. It was bad. _

_It was a _home_ for kids who caught a raw deal in life. Their parents couldn't take care of them because they were druggies, or too poor or… gone, and they had no one else. Maybe you can't tell, but it wasn't someplace I enjoyed staying. _

_It was crowded, sometimes forcing 5-6 kids occupying a space meant for 2 and that was dangerous when not everyone adjusted to their turn of fate as well as others. A lot of the kids there were listless when they came, some were angry, others just cried, which was understandable. It was the angry ones that you had to look out for. Couple that with a shortage of food and you had a mess on your hands. _

_Any little thing set them off and it was almost impossible to tell who fit into that niche until they'd already been triggered and by that time, you were in trouble. The only way to stay safe was to never let your guard down, not to show any weakness and to stick with who you knew wasn't nuts. _

_Sure, they tried to keep the more dangerous out of the general population, sticking them with 'counselors' and 'shrinks,' but they would always slip through the cracks. I found that out first hand._

_After a bad run in with one of the more challenged of our ranks, some other kid from came out of the blue and helped me up. He dusted me off and shared his food with me, seeing as I'd just got mine taken; just like that, no questions asked. That was Mohinder._

_We stuck together like glue after that. Whatever we had we split between us, we watched each other's backs. Soon, more kids wanted to join us, to feel protected. In the end, there were five of us. Mo' and me, Kotaro, but we just called him 'Kut', Jay and Ricardo. That was the start of the Reds. _

_As the years went on, the number of kids increased, but the funding didn't, there was less food to go around, less space. So one day, we left. _

_Life on the streets wasn't much better than in the orphanage; we still had to scrape to get by but at least it was on _our_ terms. It was _our choice_ and that made it all worthwhile. _

_We terrorized the neighborhoods; working odd jobs here and there for little pay and stealing what we couldn't afford. It wasn't a great life, but it was ours. Everything we had was shared five ways: food, money, booze. Those were good times, but nothing lasts forever. _

_Our notoriety spread and other urchins wanted to join up with us. The Reds grew and grew, there were new faces every week. It got to the point where I hardly knew who was with us anymore. Kut and the others got cocky, naming themselves the leaders and making the newer members do grunt work, bring them tribute as if they were pharaohs. _

_I tried my best to stay out of it at first, but it was so tempting. In theory, it seemed like a good idea. You didn't have to work for your share, you just got some other guy to do it for you. That arrangement worked for a time, but the others, they let that little bit of power go to their heads. Everyone thought they deserved more, deserved better than everyone else. That wasn't how it was supposed to be. That wasn't how it started. _

_There was a fight and Kut killed Jay. He said it was an accident, but it was over something stupid like a girl, or food. It was the last straw for me. I didn't want to be a pawn for their greed. I didn't want to die in the street like a dog, fighting over scraps, so I enlisted. I wouldn't call it a smart move, it was the only move. With no education, no money, no family, there weren't a lot of places that would take me. It was either that or death, this way I had a fighting chance. Mo came with me. _

_I hated it when I first signed on- too many rules: people telling you where to go, when to eat, what to wear. I tried to rebel against it every chance I got, but it was just stubbornness. I was happy just to have something to eat, something to wear, a warm place to sleep and money in my pocket; I could have cried. I wanted to stay forever._

_That first year of enlistment was the roughest. I wasn't doing well, so afraid that they'd find some reason, any reason to make me leave, to send me back to the streets. I was so tense, I hardly slept and when I did, I dreamt about Jay and all that I left behind on earth; the Reds, the orphanage, my parents. I wondered if I did the right thing, what would happen if the Alliance found out about me. It ate at me. I was worried all the time. That's when I heard about red sand. _

_A friend of Mo's was dealing drugs. He had all sorts of contraband, but this appealed to me the most; It wasn't a pill, so I didn't have to try to swallow it, after the hospital I swore to stay away from needles at all cost, so this was perfect. It was odorless, you inhaled it, so you got high pretty quickly, and as long as you tempered your usage, it was 'undetectable'. _

_Keeping it in check was easy at first, a little every once in a while, just to help me sleep, to keep me mellow and I was golden. Since I was so relaxed, I advanced in the ranks with almost no effort and before I knew it, I was a lieutenant and had completed my N7 training. For the first time in my life everything was going smoothly for me, until Torfan._

* * *

Garrus didn't know what to expect when Russell began his story, but it sure as Hell wasn't anything like this. He knew, from information he'd gleaned from the crew that his beginnings were far from privileged, but this was almost too much to listen to. He could only imagine what it was like to have to tell it.

Russell looked drained, as if dredging up the past and putting it into words was taking all of the strength that he had. He was no longer here, his thoughts lost somewhere in his past, his face pained as he paused, wondering what to say next. Garrus could sympathize.

Though not to this degree, he knew how vulnerable it made you to put your guts on display, unsure if the one you were going to be judged. He knew all of that first hand. But the only soul he'd ever shared his pain with was the one who he knew wouldn't judge him, he was the one who was sitting right in front of him now. Russell had just listened, passively when Garrus had divulged his hidden shame about what had happened on Omega; now it was his turn to do the same.

The moment seemed fragile as the silence stretched on and Russell sat, staring down at his intertwined fingers. Garrus fought to keep his questions at bay, afraid that if he disturbed this moment of quiet, the Russell before him would disappear back inside the hardened shell he'd built around himself.

He looked up from his clasped hands at Garrus, his lips drawn tightly together, his eyes red rimmed. He took a deep breath before he continued.

"Torfan was a disaster." His voice was low, almost a whisper; a shadow of his usual bluster.  
"It was supposed to be an easy operation: get in, take out the pirates, and we get out."

Russell shifted uncomfortably on the crate. He didn't want to continue, but once he'd started, something compelled him to finish his tale, consequences be damned.

"Our commanding officer fell in the first 15 minutes. Communications were down and our only route of escape was blocked off. It was up to me to figure something out."

He pressed his fingers against his eyes, trying to distract from the stinging pain that creeping up on him. He didn't bother to remove them before he spoke again.

"They blocked us from getting back to the drop ships, so retreat was not an option. We all knew some of us were going to die that day. There was no getting around it, but at least they were able to die on their feet; to go down fighting."

He sounded as if he were trying to convince himself of the truth to his words as much as he was Garrus. His breath came in short, ragged burst as he fought a losing battle with the tears that were spilling from his eyes.

"I didn't... I didn't sent send them to their deaths lightly. I wanted us all to come back from that mission alive. I didn't see any option other than trying to hold our position until the shit was over and someone came to pick us up." He swept his hands over his faces, in a weak attempt to shield his it from view. He wanted to hide, he wanted to curl up and die but there was nowhere to go.

"They called me a murderer, a butcher," as his friend's gaze bored into him, the truth was drawn out like poison from a wound. He didn't think he could stop himself, though he wasn't sure he wanted to. He felt exposed, weak. Something he'd swore he'd never show in front of anyone again. This wasn't how he'd expected this conversation to go.

"I thought that if I put on a brave enough face, it wouldn't affect me. If I bullshitted long enough, I'd start believing it myself.  
"When that didn't work, I started dusting up again," the words tasted bitter in his mouth, the very admission ringing of the bad decision that had brought him here, the final step into the brink, cross the point of no return.

"When I wasn't on assignment, my subconscious ate away at me. I was dusting just to get through the hour, the day, anything to not be alone with my thoughts. I was doping at least once a day."

Garrus let that sink in a minute; it sounded highly unlikely that he'd been using sand for that long and had never been found out. He'd seen plenty of junkies with eyes and teeth with a rosy tint from frequent use. Surely someone would have noticed that, especially in someone as notorious among his people as Russell was.

As if sensing his trepidation, Russell offered; "There are ways to keep it from showing up; there are eye drops and teeth whiteners. I never used before an operation, so no one was the wiser."

"The whole time we were after Saren was the longest dry spell I can remember since I started using. I had purpose again, confidence. I felt like I was doing something. I thought I might have kicked it for good." He didn't sound happy with this revelation.

"When I was brought back by Cerberus, it was like I had to start over from square one."  
"I was in a new kind of Hell. My death replaying again and again in my head; my lungs starting to burn as I struggled to take in air, knowing there was nothing to do about it. I only knew one way out."

His hands tightened into fist against his temples as he doubled over, bracing himself for the inevitable. His stomach was in knots and he felt like he would vomit at any moment. He couldn't bear to look at Garrus, to see the disgust that he knew would be etched on his features as best they could on a turian.

That was it. The whole ugly truth laid out before him, and he knew, he knew that this would be the end for him. This was the end of their friendship, the end of his career, all because he'd been weak. He was always weak, no matter how hard he tried to persevere, how much he tried to mask it, who he really was always came to the surface. He deserved whatever he had coming to him. He deserved to be alone.

Garrus was at a loss of what to say or do, the intricacies of human interaction were lost on him. He didn't know what would have been appropriate for him to do at this moment, but he knew what felt right. With some effort he got down from his perch and hobbled over to Russell. He grasped the former Spectre by the shoulders and held on tightly until he looked him in the eye.

What Garrus saw looking back at him was something akin to what he saw the few times he'd spoken to Jack, to what he saw when he looked in the mirror; eyes full of hurt, distrust, shame and anger.

He felt as if he was seeing him for the first time. This damaged individual was not the Shepard he'd known; the damaged man behind the glory, the fame; just a broken individual like himself, staring back at him.

"Shepard-" Garrus began, but fell silent as Russell's hands clutched at him, and he finally dissolved into a fit of quiet weeping, quickly wetting the front of his shirt.

Despite his own discomfort, Garrus let him carry on, mulling over everything he'd heard.  
It didn't make a difference to him at all. He knew that the man who'd defeated Saren, the addict, the hero of Torfan, were all one in the same; parts of the same equation that made up the man he still admired. He just wished _Russell_ could see it.

Silently, he finished the sentence he began before Russell had broken down.  
_Shepard, you don't have to explain anymore. I understand._


	7. Tapped

Jacob and Miranda crowded around the terminal at her desk, trying to maintain a respectful distance in the cramped space. This was not what he'd envisioned when she'd called him to her quarters. With her, it was always strictly business; just how watching vids on the extranet fit into that equation, he wasn't sure.

"Are you going to tell me what this is about or am I going to have to guess?"

"Well if you've suddenly become better at guessing what's on my mind, feel free to have a go at it," she replied, coolly. A smile curled her lips as she continued her search without pause.

"I'm just saying there are better things I could be doing with my time."

Like finding a way to distract himself from her scent that filled the room. The scent itself wasn't unpleasant- a bouquet of clean hair with just a hint of her favorite, asari made perfume- it was the memories of times past that it brought with it that bothered him.

Some nights he caught himself waxing nostalgic, reminiscing about the fun they had, the sense of stability she brought to his life, he missed it, missed her more than he thought he would, though he'd never admit that to her.

"Patience is a virtue, Mr. Taylor," she said as her fingers flew across the keys.

Soon the screen was filled with images of crates and boxes stacked atop one another in the belly of the ship. The camera panned to show two forms that seemed out of place among the regular shapes of shipping containers; one human one turian.

Miranda turned up the volume and the voice of the Commander filled the cabin.

"What's this?" the operative asked, but he already knew.

"Surveillance footage from last night," Miranda replied as she slid out of her chair and stood beside it, patting the headrest.

"I think you should take a look at it."

"I don't see what point there is in having me watch this," he said with a sigh. Shepard was the furthest thing from his mind and he aimed to keep it that way. He was only just now getting over the revulsion of having to deal with the man in any capacity.

"I thought we got rid of your spy cameras?"

"Well not all of them. This one is strictly for security purposes."

The cargo hold was the place that would need surveillance most. Dock hands sometimes needed to be supervised as they loaded the ship to make sure no one tried to make away with their merchandise. Usually a member of the crew was sent to oversee the work, and Miranda was supervising them. He wondered where else she might have the devices stowed for "security purposes."

The thought of arguing against watching the vid crossed his mind for an instant, but the idea died before the words reached his lips. Miranda had always been good at proving her logic, and any argument he could provide would be dismantled with an expertise he'd come to both admire and hate during his time working with her. As usual, she'd already won the argument long before it started.

Jacob took the offered seat and watched as Shepard, gave a retelling of his past with growing unease. It wasn't just the sense that he was eavesdropping on something private and personal, or listening to the horrors the Spectre had to face to get to this point. It was the regret.

The cocky, posturing Shepard was nowhere in sight leaving behind this lost soul, lamenting his loss. Not the loss of status or position, but of his innocence, his humanity, and Jacob had played a part in that.

Tarnith had been a disaster and that was only one person's fault; his. He'd let his emotions get the better of him. So set on punishing Shepard for his misdeed, things quickly got out of hand. All he'd wanted to take from the man was the illusion that he was still in command, instead he'd taken the use of his leg. The wound had been superficial, Shepard would make a full recovery, but he didn't feel any better about it.

Shepard had come to the armory looking for answers and all he'd got was a punch in the face. Jacob had been seething, too mad at himself to admit he was wrong, in his anger, he'd lashed out at the closest thing nearby, the person he should have been apologizing to.

The whole thing was regretful. It didn't have to go down that way, he was better than that. They both were.

Everyone had their vices, yet no one was cutting the man any slack, Jacob was the number one offender of that. The crew had shunned him for the most part, the stigma too strong for them to overlook. Even though the commander was still fighting for all their sakes, even though the one he'd hurt the most had forgiven him when no one else would.

The man dusted up, but he was the same man who saved the Council from a certain death during the geth attack, who saved the galaxy from certain doom at the hands of Sovereign. He'd been dusting even back then, what was the difference now?

Jacob felt like an idiot.

A sickening feeling crept into his gut with the realization that he'd kicked the man when he was down, not even attempting to understand. To top it all off, Shepard had to turn to the turian, someone not even of his own species, for acceptance. That wasn't what Cerberus was about.

"Do you need me for anything else?" Jacob kept his face grim, denying Miranda the satisfaction of knowing that she'd made her point.

"No, I suppose that will be all, Mr. Taylor."


	8. Suit Up

"Alright, Commander, our time's up for today." The red headed yeoman turned off the recorder and closed her notebook. Russell had to admit that her handwriting had become a lot more legible since they started having these chats; some of her scribbles resembled actual words. She was making good progress. They both were.

"Was there something else you want to talk about?" She watched him expectantly, the skin at the corners of her eyes crinkled as she forced a smile.

"No, I'm good," he replied, unable to meet her eyes. Even after all this time, this _sharing_ business wasn't easy to get used to, but it was necessary, he saw that now, but he was still not ready to give more than he had to.

His confession to Garrus had left him rattled and raw; the issues he'd ignored for so long refused to remain hidden. For all the trouble sand had caused him, it had helped him move forward and parcel of his problems. Now the crutch was gone and he had nothing left but to try to fit the pieces of his life back together.

Things looked bleak when he'd finally hit the bottom, reduced to a blubbering mess on the floor of the cargo bay, but he hadn't been alone.

Garrus had stayed with him through it all. He picked him up off the floor, brought him back to his quarters and kept vigil at his bedside. Russell woke up in the morning to find him propped in a chair, his head tucked to his chest like a giant bird.

He didn't know what odd twist of fate had brought the two of them together, but he was grateful none the less. Without his friendship, his forgiveness, Russell didn't know where he'd be, though he didn't feel like he deserved it. Though he didn't believe in divine intervention before, he did now.

She slid an OSD from the side of her datapad. Her smile broadened as she held the disk out to him. "Can you drop that off with Miranda before you leave?"

A scowl creased his brow as he stared down at the disk. He didn't see why she couldn't do it. "I need to get ready for my next appointment," she added, reading his expression.

"You have other appointments?"

"You aren't the only person on this ship who needs to vent from time to time, commander."

That was true. "I'll make sure Miranda gets this."

"Then same time next week."

Leaving the observatory he passed through a mostly empty mess hall, headed for Miranda's office. The door was standing open and Miranda was where she always was; seated at her desk, head down as she pored over stacks of datapads and OSDs; some of it was hers, a good portion of it his.

"I'll be with you in a moment," she s without looking up from the work she was fussing over, her stylus flying over the screen.

When Russell had finally had time to think of how his problems affected those around him, he realized that he had done her a great disservice. He'd doubled her workload if not tripled it. Too busy playing the victim to see how much of a liability he'd become. He saw it now, when it was all too late to make a difference. _Look forward,_ Kelly told him. _You can't change the past, but you can learn from it._

Miranda set down her stylus and looked up at her visitor, brushing raven hair out of her eyes. "What have you got for me?"

"Kelly asked me to give this to you." He dropped an OSD on the desk, adding to what was already a hefty stack. Miranda picked up the thin piece of plastic and turned it over in her hand, staring at it as if she could divine its secrets.

"Just a moment," she said as he turned to go. "This is your progress report."

Arms crossed over his chest, Russell shifted his weight to his uninjured leg with a sigh. He wasn't fond of this new capricious attitude of hers. Now that she was getting her way, she was almost insufferable. He swore to himself that he'd never screw up again, just so he wouldn't have to suffer through her long, drawn out _I-told-you-so_.

"Don't give me that look," she chided as she slipped the disk into her terminal. "I bet it's good."

Before Russell could protest that he didn't _want_ to know what it said, she'd already skimmed through several screens of information. With a nod she dimmed the terminal and turned her steely gaze on him, her lips curled into a grin. "Time to suit up."

He raised an inquiring brow. "Say what now?"

That was not how he'd intended to spend the rest of his day. He was kind of enjoying his downtime; talking to Kelly in the morning, some light physical therapy in the afternoon and all the time in between was his to do what he pleased. Most of it had been spent trying to bring his sniping skills up to snuff, though holo-simulations in his quarters were a poor substitute for live ammo exercises.

"Kelly's given you a clean bill of health." She pushed up from her desk and rounded on him. She placed her hands were on his back and started to usher him out the door. "And so has Dr. Chakwas. It's just in time, too. We have a mission coming up and we need to speak with The Illusive Man."

He started for the elevator, confused as he mourned the end of his lazy afternoons. "Make sure you stop by the armory first." She called before he was out of earshot. "Jacob has something for you."

* * *

He stood on the threshold of the armory, nervousness prickling sweaty palms. The last time he was here things had gotten out of hand. He'd made an ass of himself and injured a member of his squad. Someone he needed whether he liked it or not. He hadn't tried to speak to Jacob since then and there was no telling how things would turn out.

No, Russell knew: Things would go better this time; they had to. If it got too hot, he'd take himself out of the situation, like Kelly had told him. He wouldn't slug him, not matter how much he might deserve it.

Entering the armory, he saw no trace of the former Corsair and he was tempted to turn right around and leave. "Jacob?" He called once, for legitimacy's sake, so he could say he tried before going back to his quarters and locking himself in. The Illusive Man was next on his list of people he didn't really want to see.

"Down here," came Jacob's disembodied reply. A moment later he rose from behind the nearest gun laden table, wiping dust from his hands. "I didn't expect you so soon. I only messaged Miranda a few minutes ago."

Russell hadn't expected to come back here this so soon, either. Clearly, his Executive Officer apparently had plans of her own for the both of them. "She told me that you have something for me?"

"Come on back." Jacob motioned for him to come further into the room as he headed towards the back. "You're new armor's here."

"I didn't order any armor." In all the feeling sorry for himself, the task had completely slipped Russell's mind. At least that answered the question of what the Cerberus agent did at his console all day: he ordered things.

Jacob hauled a crate forward from where it was tucked in the far corner. "Then I guess it was Miranda," he offered as he keyed in the security code. The box opened with a hiss, the top slowly lifting of its own accord.

"I figured as much. The requisition order did look a little odd. " Jacob shrugged. "I thought you might want to at least look at it before you have to go out in it."

For lack of anything better to say, Russell settled for "Thanks." He started to ponder his dislike of Miranda's micromanagement style, but the thoughts vanished as he caught sight of his new gear.

Inside the box, recessed in layers of black packing foam was a suit of armor similar to its predecessor that had been destroyed, but upgraded. From the packing slip, he saw that that everything was custom: standard leg guards had been swapped out for life support webbing, new chest plate; hell, even the recon hood was brand spanking new and the whole thing came painted in his trademark black on red.

Russell delicately removed one of the Kestrel armguards from its resting place and turned it over in his hands. He never would have ordered any of this gear for himself, which is why he guessed Miranda had gone ahead and done that for him; he felt like a kid at Christmas.

"That's some primo gear you've got there," Jacob said from where he was posted against the wall. "If we're going to send you back out here, you've got to be prepared."

Russell's gaze flicked from the gauntlet in his hand, to the other man. "_You_ picked this stuff out?"

He nodded, his arms crossed over his chest. "Most of it. Miranda gave me the funds and told me to pick what I thought would help you out the most. She insisted on choosing some parts herself, though. I didn't think you were the type to leave things up to chance, but you never know."

Russell could see that, judging by how reinforced the leg guards and breastplate were. It wasn't his style, to be sure, and it didn't seem like Jacob's either. "Thanks, Taylor."

"Don't mention it." Jacob said as he stared down at his boots. Russell could feel that something was coming. There was more to this arrangement than simply showing him the new toys they'd ordered for him.

"I know we've had our rough spots…" Jacob began and cuffed himself on the back of the neck.

"No kidding," Russell said after a few moments of silence. This was going to be like pulling teeth. He knew it.

Jacob paced, his hand rubbing his neck so hard, Russell was sure he would chafe the skin. "Even on sand, you're better than I ever was."

"'Even on sand...'" Russell repeated, casting a wary glance his way.

"I didn't mean—Shit."

"What are you trying to say Jacob?"

The Operative scrubbed his hands over his hair and down over his face, exasperated. "This is coming out wrong."

"Take your time." Russell leaned his weight against the table. He had a feeling he'd be here for a while. He had a hunch on where this was going, albeit in a ham-fisted way. Apologies didn't come easy for Jacob, just like they were for him —maybe it was an Alliance thing— but he had to hand it to him for trying. It would have been good of Russell to stop him there and saved him the embarrassment, but he would let him squirm for a while. This would teach him to follow orders and not let his commanding officer get shot in the damned leg. _Bastard._

"I'm just trying to say," Jacob blurted, giving in to his frustration. "For all your faults and problems, you're still the best damn solider I've ever seen, and hopefully will get the chance to know."

"Ok, ok," Russell raised his hands, to ward him off. He'd had enough sharing for one day, and didn't know how much more he could take.

"I'm…sorry; for everything."

"I get it, Jacob." He patted him on the shoulder, hoping he would get the hint. He didn't need any more apologies from him or anyone else. He just wanted to go forward from here, and get on with his life.

Jacob sighed, relieved that he wouldn't have to say any more. "Are we cool?"

He hadn't expected this sudden turn around "We will be," Russell tapped the top of the crate, tightening his grip on the Armory Officer's shoulder. "Once you help me get into this outfit."

Jacob paused, a nervous smile tugging at his lips. He forced a chuckle, "Very funny..."

"Who says I'm joking?" The Spectre set his jaw in a hardline to keep from laughing out loud and keep up the façade of seriousness. "I'm still an injured man after all." He gestured to his thigh that was no more than bruised at this point. It was still a little stiff, but not enough that he couldn't manage getting into the armor by himself. But Jacob didn't need to know that.

"Commander, Operative Taylor," EDI interrupted, cutting off any chance for protest. "Operative Lawson requests your presence in the comm room."

"We'll continue this after the briefing." Russell said as he took long strides towards the door. "So be prepared."

He glanced over his shoulder, to see Jacob standing at his station, his face contorted with disbelief. This was a drastic change from the last time they met, but this was the way to go. If he could forgive Russell, then Russell could forgive him.

"Are you coming or what, Taylor?" Russell stopped in the doorway, turning to face him.

A wide grin crossed the Operative's face that he tried to tamp down, but not before Russell saw it. He caught up to Russell and followed him through the opened door.

"Right behind you, Shepard."

[fin]


End file.
